


Forty three sunsets and not you

by tco



Series: All blessings counted, no countings blessed [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel as God, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Episode: s06e22 The Man Who Knew Too Much, Godstiel - Freeform, Katabasis, Lima Syndrome, M/M, Season/Series 07, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships, just giving you a fair warning is all, not putting it in the noncon tag since it doesn't apply, some of you might consider this dubcon although it's debatable, the little prince references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:54:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4638180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tco/pseuds/tco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel declares himself God and what he doesn't know, but Dean suspects - he grows a baobab in his heart. The new almighty still has a soft spot for Dean and really wants him by his side. For what? He has no idea, but since this is the only way to have Cas fix Sam's deteriorating mind, he eventually agrees. Now Dean thinks living with Cas the God is the equivalent of having all your shit moved exactly three inches to the left while you were gone just to fuck with you. He can tell something is wrong, but he can't put his finger on it. It suddenly goes from awkward to terrifying when Cas has The Idea and for the love of fuck, he needs to be stopped at all costs. So Dean pays with all he has.<br/>And it breaks him because you just can't make a horse drink.<br/>Castiel can't accept this. He ventures into Dean's soul to "fix" him.<br/>Dean's soul has a different plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the horse and water

**Author's Note:**

  * For [babybluecas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/gifts), [Magdalena](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magdalena/gifts).



> There are so many things I want to say, dear ticklingarrow and Magdalena, but you are so wonderful to me I am at a complete loss of words. There aren't any that can describe what you mean to me and how grateful I am for your support. This story would never exist without you. I owe you everything. Thank you for being my friends. You mean the world to me.  
> This story is for you.
> 
> Title for this story is inspired by Antoine de Saint Exupery's "The Little Prince."  
> In some translations you might come across forty four sunsets, but that's a mistake. In the French original it's forty three.
> 
> Fic that takes place in the same verse, but there's an alternation to the events: Running Up That Hill With Terminal Velocity And No Control

_“Men have forgotten this truth," said the fox. "But you must not forget it. You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”_

-Antoine de Saint Exupéry, The Little Prince

**The horse and water**

Behind a wall or two, Springfield burns. Dean passes the piano room, grabs the wannabe vase glass on his way. Throws the water and the flowers out. That will leave a stain on the carpet for sure, but Dean’s too busy not catching a glimpse of the sight outside of the windows, where bright, hot and furious, the city dies in tongues of fire. He tries not to think how this isn’t exactly what he had in mind, thinking this shit hole could use a warmer weather. But even his idle staring and contemplating his position from the days before have turned against him. Everything did and, fuck, he should have seen it coming. He tries not to think, for the sole purpose of keeping the remains of his sanity, about anything at all. Not that he’d change his mind. The alea is iacta as fuck, no taksies backsies. He tries not to think, above all things, how tomorrow, because of him, entire Illinois will be fucked.

Well. If the darling is as wrathful as it is sentimental (and obviously is, considering the current misadventures of Springfield), that’s how it’s gonna roll.

 

Illinois’s done nothing wrong. For once, Dean doesn’t care. He’s done nothing wrong either. Sometimes people just get screwed, no matter how hard they try. Like him. He tried so damn hard. He reasoned, he explained, he apologized, he excused, he believed. He begged, he broke down, he put those pretty gifts on, down to the gold wreath-shaped necklace (which Cas insists is not a collar). He even sucked dick like he meant it (that is a miracle since he really, really did not). First for Cas, then for Sam, lastly for what formerly was the Russian Federation and is now about to be “Dean’s Garden”. And this is a very shitty name because:

a) the term “garden” requires human involvement, which is something this huge-ass part of Eurasia now lacks in the most fundamental way since there apparently are no more people there, last time Dean checked on the TV (two days ago),

and

b) this is the exact catastrophe he tried to prevent with all he had and much, much more, and Cas knew it, so naming the result of the fiasco after him is fucking uncalled for. And rude. And also a bitch-slap.

Like, if he was given the right to choose, he’d go with something honest, simple and elegant, like “fuck.” But no, he always only had the illusion of a choice and it was on a totally different subject, so it was up to Cas. His doing, after all. And as warped as his little marbles are, he most likely considered it a celebratory name, because he finally, finally got to eat his cookie (and fuck you, Cas. If you eat a cookie then you don’t have one). This makes Dean’s plan D, for dick ride, a double failure.

But wait, there’s more: he fucked up for the third time in a row because he shared his disappointment with the class, whereas he was supposed to be fucking thrilled. Thankful? Proud? Ecstatic? There was none of this, thank you. Which is probably why Cas is very busy today, really not wanting to try to interact with him right now (great, like literally once in a lifetime opportunity great) and also why he supposes Springfield taking it up the ass was up for yesterday’s agenda (bad). Frankly, he just wishes the sweetheart would cope with that lack of gratitude through the traditional fist to face kind of conversation instead of burning everything around their domestic dream into ashes because Lincoln’s fucking house really didn’t deserve this and five million other reasons Dean doesn’t have it in him anymore to count. At the same time, he’s super convinced the fucking statues are going to outlive the city and remain the last damn things standing and that will make a horrible view, but in Dean’s eyes still won’t prove Cas’s point, whatever it fucking is these days. So yeah, a punch would be a better plan. God, sometimes he wishes Cas would just hit him cause that’s at least normal. But the fist went elsewhere. The memory draws an involuntary shudder. Nausea follows. There’s really no time or no point for this, he reminds himself. He has no way of telling when Cas is coming back, so pro-health puking is out of options. Also, it’s absolutely counterproductive.

 

Technically, he could turn the TV on and see where the omnipotent and merciful currently is, but hey, he doesn’t care and that aside, he’d prefer to avoid the sorriest sight of publicists and reverends discussing the fascinating and hope-lighting miracle of the betrothed (that’s him) saying yes and giving himself (also him) unto the endless care and “agape” or “storge” or “philia”, since that varies depending on the day and the church and what not (that’s not true, either way) of the Lord (fuck you, Cas). This would inevitably lead to talking about the Garden again, about how wonderful it’s going to be and how thoughtful a gift to the world it is. And then some grand communion marriage talk. He wouldn’t even be pissed anymore, or disgusted. He’s too drained. Everything has been already discussed in the media, the question of what he’d be wearing on that special day included. He could, just for kicks, call them and say all of their guesses are wrong (they are, especially Dean’s favorite ones coming from the folks who still speculate that he might be a chick, since he’s currently ensuring they will stay in the wrong). But he doesn’t care. The indifference is a bliss, some kind of unfathomable freedom he’s allowing himself for the first time. There’s gonna be no marriage. True, Cas never even mentioned it to him, not openly, but apparently he did everywhere else, and it fits the modus operandi of calling him “a friend” here and “the bride” amongst the believers, fucking doesn’t it. All the talking on the TV channels he shouldn’t have but does, has made Cas’s intentions clear. He’s just stalling, that’s what he’s doing. Sooner or later there would come a white veil to his white, ivy-embroidered and scratchy clothes. Who knows, maybe he already swallowed some kind of a tiny-fonted contract with his ass or with his mouth.

Well, today’s him saying no to the brightest of all futures. There’s gonna be no more briding, or friending, or courting, or buddy-paling, or taming, or guiding or loving or keeping him around. This is Dean’s me-time. This is his fucking swan song, and it goes like:

fuck you, Cas.

Having this in mind, he goes to see Sam, leaving the motherfucking stupid piano room and the TV and all of this mess behind, Springfield included. Sets himself free of this flowery choker garbage and puts it on the piano, where he found it first (he hopes the gesture conveys fuck you, Cas well enough). He takes the glass with. His hands don’t take idleness that fine.

 

Sam’s, well, the usual. Deadlike unconscious in this great, white bed, in this great, white room. His face calm, sun-lit (or rather, burning Springfield-lit, but let’s keep this romantic or at least non-threatening for a damn second, Dean tells himself). He looks like he’s at peace. He’s actually getting better, no matter how slowly. Every day, he notices the change. It always shows on his face, on his now skinny palms. He doesn’t scream in his sleep anymore, his brow doesn’t furrow in pain, his hands don’t grasp at the sheets until his knuckles match them in white. He just sleeps. Is. Something. Well. ‘S gotta be good enough for now and if even Cas the God says it can’t be done faster, then it can’t be done faster. This much at least, he believes. He sits down in his chair, cherishing the fact that Cas isn’t here to accompany him this time, and he holds Sam’s hand. Says he’s sorry. Says he never wanted for things to turn out like this. Says if he had known falling for Cas would’ve brought them here (all three of them; Cas was a good guy once), he would’ve stayed in Hell. He’d have done everything not to ever meet him, not to lay an eye on him. He apologizes for having done literally everything in the opposite direction. He apologizes for loving both of them, but this one goes mostly to himself (Sam can’t hear him anyway). Doesn’t accept his own apology, of course. What’s the point. Says “Bye, Sammy.” And if he cries, there’s luckily no one to see it.

 

Wiping the tears and the life off his face, he makes his way to the bathroom. He locks the door behind him. Then he outdoes himself in futility and barricades the entrance with the washing machine. Why not? Funnier like this. He pours holy oil over the barrier he just made and puts it on fire. Gonna call it ‘lil Springfield, he thinks. Useless probably, but at this point it’s go big or go home. Besides, it will only speed shit up for him. The bathroom isn’t claustrophobically small – nothing in this house is, there always is too much empty space and the house screams with it all the time (just look at the fucking piano room. Dean still doesn’t know why it’s even there). It is, however, modest in size enough that the fire will help quite a lot. Especially with the hot bath he’s now running. A while ago he even considered applying some relaxing oils, but it occurred to him that it’s also pointless. He’s already starting to feel good. Hell, he feels giddy about this. He thinks about undressing. He goes for a compromise in the end, keeping his boxers on for future terms of aesthetics reasons. So he’s prude at the most awkward times (as Cas would point out sometimes, but fuck you, Cas), sue him. He stares at the stupid glass, considers its existence in the context of utility, and goes nah. No need to overdramatize. He already sees this as a diva from a burned down theater kind of a deal, so he better not make it even more stilted than it is. So okay, he fills it with water instead. Tastes foul but it doesn’t matter. He’s spent half of the last night drinking so much it even got Cas’s attention. But fuck Cas and his attention. That’s the whole problem, isn’t it.

 

He gets in. The water is just this side of scorching, but manageable. Now not to fuck it up, cause it’s gonna be embarrassing if he does. There’s a handful of easier and faster ways, but the luxury of having the option isn’t given to him. First of all, if there’s anything on this planet that is a waste of a bullet, that’s his stupid brains. With his naivety, there’s no contest. Secondly, there are no guns in this house. Dean’s been informed he doesn’t need them anymore. Divine protection is supposed to be enough, but he guesses there’s a different reason beneath that explanation. Of course there’s nothing he could do to Cas with one, but there are other things he might be dangerous to. Like himself. The only reason why he has this silly, little knife is because he insisted he doesn’t need people to peel his damn apples for him and he can do that on his own, all four and what not. It requires a lot of effort to hurt something with this little bitch, but luckily, Dean is always full of determination. All right. Excuse for a knife in left hand, he goes down his wrist deep and fast, careful not to fuck his tendons up cause that would be stupid and twice as stupid if he’s unlucky enough to survive. Repeat with hand right. Lie down. And now we wait, he concludes.

 

He’s like seventy something years old and he’s never been this relieved. This is it, this is freedom. This is going home, where there’s Sam, where his mom is, where Cas isn’t God (if he is at all; after all he’s done it’s debatable), where the world stays how it was. He’s free. The water reddens over time and he feels like he’s floating soon enough. Despite the bath, he gets cold. Doesn’t matter. Springfield doesn’t matter. He’s about to become one with Russia. He’s gonna be fucking Anna Karenina. So he waits. Content. Anxious. Content again. This is so funny. This is – wait, what was so funny? Never mind. What’s important is why the fuck do they have a piano room? Cas the God commanded let there be a piano room in this fuck up house. And golden chrysanthemums in a crystal glass (where even is the glass?). What the fuck. What an idiot. He’s sleepy.

There’s pounding on the door now. He’s kind of trying to breathe here and that’s interrupting the process even more than the process itself. Yeah, maybe he should stop that, too.

“Dean!” he hears. And the same plea slash demand all over again. More pounding. He didn’t hear a “honey, I’m home,” but it’s the son of a bitch alright. Dean guesses his spidey senses were tingling.

He wonders if Cas is gonna respect his autonomy and wait or assert his authority as his God by coming in anyway. Doesn’t matter. Fuck you, Cas.

Cas sounds furious.

“Dean – Schmean,” he offers politely in exchange and laughs, a serene sound coming right out of his belly.

He’s happy. Hasn’t laughed like this since… since he was with Cas at the brothel, which is kind of sad, outcome considering. Whatever.

Now he thinks, still laughing, that his final words should actually be “fuck you, Cas.” Somehow, he can’t manage to force them out.

It’s shortly past eleven in the morning and Springfield continues to burn when the bathroom stills in quiet.

* * *

 

Castiel isn’t exactly sure what Dean slurred at him last, but as the echo of his cackling wilts abruptly and unnaturally, he goes to hell with his non-aggression and privacy respect policy once and for all. He undoes the door with a thought and rushes towards the tub, untouched by the fire, eyes already filling with tears. In pink water, Dean lies pale and cold. Just when the last noise of pulse drowns beneath Castiel’s shaking fingers, he denies death its final right. Carefully, he takes Dean out of the water (he’s still not breathing).

“You’re not Ophelia, Dean,” he murmurs softly. That’s as much a threat as it is reassurance. Such recklessness will not go without reprimand.

As he carries him through the hall, he passes people, his most devoted servants. They all freeze in horror at the sight. There’s going to be panic. There are going to be rumors. He’ll deal with this later. He’ll also have Dean watch, in said reprimand. This is more than convenient.

 

Lain in their conjugal bed, Dean is left alone (not breathing yet, Castiel’s rational mind tries to supply). Castiel needs air and time before he approaches him again. His anger needs to simmer down. By the time he’s back, Dean’s probably going to be awake and sulking and hissing like a cat thrown into a shower. This is going to be a hard conversation. Upon taking his leave, he commands for his betrothed to be properly taken care of.

 

He doesn’t stay away for long. Intuition is telling him that something’s wrong. The message of _he wasn’t breathing_ finally gets through. What he sees as he returns only confirms his suspicions. Someone had Dean covered with a white sheet, like a corpse. Castiel finds it extremely offending, so he tears the cloth off, furious. He takes Dean’s pulse. It’s barely there, only he in all his power can feel it deep under the surface of silence. His organs, as he checks them, appear to be stagnant, but not entirely shut off. Dean’s body is waiting on stand-by, fully healed, warm and rosy again – no paleness, no bloody wounds on his wrists. And Castiel has no idea what is stopping him from opening his cold, distant eyes. By all accounts, he should. Castiel made sure to catch him before he dies. He still senses Dean’s soul, although it appears to be mangled. Then again, Castiel thinks, it already was when he met him.

 

He wonders if Dean can hear him. Petting his hair, he starts with, “how dared you,” which unsurprisingly doesn’t earn him a response. “I don’t understand,” he says and he thinks _don’t understand again_. “I always gave away everything to save your life, Dean. Even if you hated it, even if you failed to see good behind my reasoning. All for you. And you give me this,” he huffs. Leaves bitter _give me nothing_ unspoken. “I need you here,” he sighs instead, so tired with this unruly child of his.

He lies down next to Dean in silence. His friend doesn’t wake up to watch the sunset this time. Night falls over the ashes of Springfield and he waits.

At dawn, he whispers to himself mournfully, Dean still unresponsive in his arms:

“And three days ago you were mine.”

But a kiss on a temple doesn’t bring Dean back to him.

 

At the beginning of a new day, there are threats. At first subtle, like:

_This world doesn’t deserve to run without you,_

_I don’t know what to do with my hands all alone like this,_

_Many people are going to find your lack a very bad thing,_

_I still can make you regret not being here,_

_There’s no abandoning God, Dean. Remember what my Father did when his people turned their back on him,_

_Everything I’ve done for your sake. And everything I can undo._

Dean remains an indifferent, deaf statue. Like the ones Castiel erected all over the world.

 

Later, he decides to hit closer to home:

_Don’t make me burn down Battle Creek, Dean. I will, if I have to. Dean, and I will make you walk through the cinders and ruins. I will watch you weep._

Dean doesn’t seem to care at the moment. Castiel decides to remind him of something else entirely. Should work. Has to work, he muses. No matter how many broken bones, he always crawls back to Sam. And, in fact, the more broken he is, the faster he manages to crawl, that amazing little thing.

_Remember, love, that Sam is under my care. I told you I can undo everything. Be wise about something in your life just once._

Dean chooses not to. Somehow, he doesn’t crawl back here. Astounding, Castiel thinks. To think he’s suddenly developed autonomy. Definitely worth praising. Definitely bad timing.

 

Castiel goes to the piano room and drinks Dean’s whiskey, holds the myrtle wreath necklace thinking how a few days ago, Dean was his. He was clay in his hands, warm sand into which he sank; he was bendable and willing; he was the heat of the sun, he was air; he was sweetness of milk and of honey; he was all fire and his body was cathedral arches; he was prayers, he was thanks and he shone; an instrument and a sacrament carefully put into palpable, malleable flesh that Castiel swallowed and swallowed and drowned. Dean was beautiful, ethereal. His. All his: every move was his, every breath was his, every shudder. No Cicero, no heavenly war, no pride held them apart. Now Dean’s on his bed, not exactly in the right context. So desperate to not be his anymore. To say that it hurts doesn’t even begin to describe it.

 

Eventually and with bitter resignation, he goes to Sam’s room and simply fixes him. No effort. It never was. He doesn’t wake him up. Not that he cares about Sam’s possible anger, he just doesn’t want to deal with it yet. Not when Dean’s, well, is not.

“I fixed your brother, Dean,” he announces, standing by the bed, where Dean’s chest still doesn’t rise and fall like it should. “Now come back to me.” Bitterly, he thinks, _crawl_.

 

Hours pass, the world breathes while Dean doesn’t, but for the time being he lets it corrupt itself further. There is still no sign either of life or of a solution and he’s holding Dean’s hand, his forehead on Dean’s arm, where the handprint, the claim, once lied, mistakenly taken back merely a year before:

“Or at least come back to him.”

 

Next stage, apologies:

_I didn’t mean what I said,_

_I will bless Michigan three-fold, I promise,_

_I will love you better if I have loved you wrong,_

_I will love you more if I haven’t loved you enough,_

_If in your eyes I’ve ever nailed you to a cross, know I’ve only done it so you wouldn’t fall._

He thinks, desperation blooming blisters in his hearts, all of them broken: _I love you, I love you_ ad nauseam. He offers: _I’ll crawl_.

But Dean knows no mercy in not being here. Like with Christ, the whole tempting doesn’t quite work. At this point Castiel is becoming annoyingly aware that no matter how many crowns and kingdoms and un-destroyed Russia’s he’d offer, it’s not going to do anything to help Dean change his mind. Because Dean isn’t that much of a materialistic man, obviously. Because this is about some kind of principle now. Because something else also, but Castiel fails to decipher that one. Frustrated, he wonders what kind of pieces he’s missing.

 

Out of both ideas and ammo, he binds Death.

                                                             

* * *

          

Death shows up by their bed with a bag of dried apple slices in hand and a truly loathing smile on his face. “Charming,” he throws dryly after taking the situation in, it being a restless, tired-faced Castiel occupying a chair next to a Snow White spread Dean Winchester. Not exactly surprising, but pathetic nonetheless. “Silly, little thing. You had the audacity to bring me here because you broke your chew toy?”

“Watch your words,” Castiel growls. “He’s not a chew toy.”

“Yes, the betrothed is how you call him,” Death hums. “But the outcome and the intent are quite the same, aren’t they?”

“This was an accident,” Castiel insists.

“No,” Death smiles patronizingly. “An accident was you finding him. Both this time and the first time, Castiel. Don’t feel so entitled.”

“I don’t feel entitled,” he snaps. “I’m God. And he’s mine. His heart’s already been in a while,” he reassures himself. “He belongs with me.”

“Foolish brat. You’re just a mutation with too many teeth inside and too wide wings. They won’t take you as far as you’d like. And you won’t get to eat the whole world. These fangs will turn back on you.”

“It’s not my concern now.”

“While it should be.”

“You can see my priority lies in this bed. I don’t ask for your advice regarding who I became,” Castiel says curtly. “Just tell me what’s wrong with him.”

“You, I think,” Death lets out a humorless chuckle. “Have you finally told him you want him as his bride? Is that why the infamous Dean befriended the knife?”

“He didn’t know yet. I haven’t told him what the agreement entails.”

“What a humanitarian you are. Coupled with him and spared the truth for as long as possible. Lying is the perfect foundation to marriage,” Death tsks. “Even better one for a burial.”

“He’s not dead.”

“How unfortunate for him,” comes a mocking pout. “He’s in a lot of misery with how he is right now. I can only imagine how much pain it is to have a shattered and dislocated soul.”

“This shouldn’t be a problem. I can mend it.”

“How? Some of the pieces are already out of his body. Coming back anywhere, not to mention back to you, is the last thing they want to do.”

“You don’t know that,” Castiel snarls.

“Oh, but I do. You’ve been calling him for days. With the bond you had, he could have given you a sign anytime he wanted. He didn’t.”

Castiel stares at Dean in hopeless anger and has the word ‘had’ ringing in his head. “Dean,” he mutters almost voicelessly, betrayed.

“A part of him prayed to me instead, you know,” Death muses. “Funny how calling yourself God doesn’t exactly have to take you to a pedestal,” he laughs. “He asked me to end this, to take him, even back to Hell, if it means being far away from you. That was a the first day. Now it’s quiet. My guess is he’s deteriorating, a broken soul can only exist for so long.”

“I won’t let that happen,” he states.

“If you’re half as merciful as you claim to be, you let him go.”

“That’s nonsense,” Castiel huffs, standing up. “My Father created the whole world. I can recreate one man.”

“Ah, yes? Just look where your prides and creations have taken you both,” Death spits.

Castiel’s only comment is to snap his fingers and unbind him. “I’m going to be busy and you don’t really care anyway, so...” He shrugs. “Leave.”

“You always make a bigger mess than you can clean,” Death warns.

“I’m cleaning the primordial one.”

Death glances at Dean again. “Doesn’t look like it at all,” he comments. “Unless this,” he points at the man, “is what you call him, too.”

Looking at Dean fondly, he smiles. “I wouldn’t be wrong, would I,” he sighs. “My poor, little mess,” he adds with evident pity. “You understand that I must put him back together before he hurts himself, don’t you?”

Death only shakes his head. So he doesn’t understand. “Before he hurts himself?” he echoes in disbelief. “You lead the horse to water and it drowned instead of drinking,” Death huffs.

“Just to annoy me,” Castiel seethes. “It’s nothing permanent,” he concludes, softly brushing a thumb down Dean’s cheek. “It’s childish anger cause he didn’t get what he wants.” He tries to regain composure and fails at that spectacularly. Tired, he only achieves the opposite. “I don’t even know what he fucking wants,” he adds, resigned. “But I’ll extract that information.”

“And will you comply?”

“That depends. Would you comply to something stupid?” Castiel counters.

“Which is exactly why I find what you’re trying to accomplish ill-advised and I’m warning you not to do that. You’re not going to like what gets out of there once you yank it out,” he comments instead.

After that, to Castiel’s satisfaction, he disappears. Unbothered, he lies down next to Dean once more and trails his fingers up his ribs until he reaches the heart. He sinks his almighty hand down inside smoothly and easily, as if Dean’s chest was made of water; his flesh gives way like it gave before. He’s going to raise him from perdition again. He’s aqua de vida. The horse _has_ to drink.


	2. The horse and milk

**The horse and milk**

Preparing to invade ( _inspect_ , Castiel tells himself immediately) Dean’s soul, he didn’t waste his thoughts on coming up with any ideas regarding what it can possibly look like or what shape it would take. In his mind, as his palm kept washing over Dean’s ribs in an excruciatingly slow and all-devouring, loving wave (wanting more, wanting again, wanting it back), there was only reminiscence of Dean’s flushed, burning skin and his wordless songs of passion from few nights ago. Touching him like this alone drives him out of his mind. Out of billions of his minds. Makes him swell and throb with sorrow. He’s not going to lose it. He’s not going to lose Dean. So no matter what inexplicable atrocity the one damn soul that keeps fighting and never lets itself get safely tucked in under layers and layers of his holy love has contorted into, he’s going to find Dean since he clearly has lost himself. He’s going to put him back together. And he’s going to put him back where he belongs. He can do that. He can do everything.

 

So he’s fucking surprised when the aura of Dean’s heart sends him down on all fours, trembling and weeping with no control over the human-shaped manifestation of his divinity. In fact, the term of surprise, in the context of matching the intensity of the currently experienced emotion, to Castiel seems to be so far inadequate it doesn’t fit at all, even though it’s bound to be the closest thing. Somehow, even the word “communism” appears to be more fitting in comparison, despite being neither an adjective nor an emotion. Although knowing Dean, he’d probably bitterly say it can be an emotion if one tries hard enough. Castiel’s second try on cataloguing his emotions on the subject of Dean’s aura ends with a concoction of considering himself assaulted and humiliated that is neatly wrapped by the phrase “bitch slapped.” It’s thick like tar and screaming with pure suffering, the feeling suffocating him and shoving itself down his throat. But Castiel is more and better than that so the shock of first encounter quickly recedes and he lets Dean’s pain fall away into something dull and peripheral. And he thinks, this is caricatural. The thought that this pain might be honest in its intensity, he discards immediately. This has to be yet another petty, little act meant to have him regret his actions and yield, shame digging into him like gravel into bare skin. It’s the same as every disgusted or pained look given to him in an accusation, supposed to undo every Castiel’s “no.” “It’s like every single “we’re done,” every hissed taunt of “then do it,” every imaginable “you don’t love me enough.” It’s the fake-suicide chair in the panic room all over again. A design founded on guilt tripping and teary eyes, one that used to work on him like a charm for far too long. He’s never hurt Dean like this, not how the manifestation of Dean’s soul is implying.

He’d never. He--

Frowning, he catches himself wanting to soothe the thing as his first instinct. It’s not true. It’s not real. This sort of suffering isn’t even possible for a human being to endure. It’s nothing but a paper-cut oversaturated to the point of surrealism, he tells himself. Poetry of pure turpism about spoiled milk. The always well-known to him truth of “people lie, souls can’t,” he stores far, far away, where even his all-eyes don’t see it. Because if this is true, it means that he butchered and broke Dean beyond recognition, in a way even Hell didn’t have enough time or power to do. So it’s a lie, the ugliest one Dean’s ever spat at him. Has to be.

 

Standing up straight, he opens his eyes, assuming he is going to be met with some kind of surroundings, which is what the distinct feel of dirt from under his knees and hands strongly suggest to be true. Same for his lungs, as he wills his respiratory system to kick in for a fuller and better experience. After all, this is Dean. Everything in here can be a useful clue. And this? This isn’t Dean’s mouth. These aren’t his thighs. He doesn’t know how to navigate these lands. Holding a soul or even laying a claim on it is much more different from finding oneself in a position where it makes all the rules and that’s just talking about a healthy soul. But one that’s shattered into pieces and holding itself relatively together in a piece of art made of morbid stained glass full of malfunctions and glitches as signs for its progressing decomposition? One that’s Dean’s? What’s there? What’s left?

 

Wilderness, apparently. The reason for it taking this particular shape eludes him. But it’s bound to unravel later on. For now, he focuses. For now, he stands up finally, dust and dirt on his palms and knees tainting the white suit staying a reminder of the idiotic moment of weakness. The air is fresh and crisp. Nearby, he smells the sea. Above, the thick canopy of tree tops gleams with brightness of the sky, small spots of light piercing through the unrelenting green. Ahead of him, a slim path. So either Dean is merciful on purpose or simply by design. Feeling instinctively that the path is not a trap, he decides to follow it, tuning into the ache of his grace that cries for the one who’s gone missing. It knows Dean is somewhere out there. It knows there is more to him that the dull scream of something torn and frayed beyond recognition. It’s the light far away at the end of the trail that lures him. Like a predator is called by the scent of fresh blood. Whatever is out there, he craves it, hungry. Dean, he thinks, he murmurs, he growls. Like it says everything. It does.

 

He walks and he walks and there’s nothing but the static sound of pain and pinecones crumbling beneath his feet. No leaves on the trees move nor hum, they have no need to. They aren’t really alive. They’re just there. Part of mise en scène, nothing more. Among the nearly cardboard-cutout flora, there is no fauna at all. Not that Castiel hears, not that he sees. Beneath his touch, everything rots. And as he touches, all cuts into silence for a morbid moment before sobs roll out of nowhere in its place. Each time it happens, Castiel needs to wipe tears from his face all over again. Eventually he stops touching anything at all. The light doesn’t seem to get any closer. Every now and then a dark shape flickers among the trees not far ahead of him, either in patrol or in guidance. Doesn’t matter at the moment. It can’t be any threat to him even if it really, really tried - and it doesn’t. He focuses on the trail, on the light, on Dean.

* * *

 

As predicted, a change of scenery occurs at some point. Fluid in the way only not-reality shifts, making it impossible to tackle the exact moment it takes place. It just happens, leaving Castiel with the After. No sign of the Before, he notices upon turning back. There are, however, some shared qualities. Like the fresh air, perhaps even too crisp for normality; like the call of broken sorrow; like his surroundings imitating life. From the outside, the town resembles things that are painted on hospital walls on children’s wards: poor and most likely accidental remixes of van Gogh, hopefully with lots of heart put into them. What Dean put into this - he has no idea. As if in a reaction to the unspoken question, the soul strikes with an answer. For a brief moment, makes him experience fear. But doesn’t elaborate on the why, even though Castiel tries to ask. Accepting that the answer is denied, he concentrates on the call again, on what he longs for so badly. Yellow, hardly rectangle-shaped windows and their incandescent light beckon him towards the crudely painted house with a sign saying “café” painted on it. Fearless and certain, he enters.

 

Inside, the building no longer defies reality. He takes a look around, savoring his surroundings. It does look like a perfectly normal café indeed. Light colors, wooden chairs, fancy tablecloths, actual flowers in vases on the round, little tables. Seems very undeanlike and honestly, he’d more expect to find him in the badly painted bar that he saw nearby, not here, of all places. Then again, he should have known better. Dean always pulls the opposite of whatever the hell is expected of him. Whether it’s a matter of nature or nurture is yet to be established and is not to be debated now. There are more pressing matters at hand and at sight. The one and only king of this forlorn café-castle is here and he stares at him with very careful interest, wild eyes shining with something that feels like conviction. Even from the distance Castiel can see and marvel how wonderfully long lashes frame his cunning eyes, he breathes in all the skin of his neck a shirt’s collar doesn’t hide from him, his stare hovers about and above his pink mouth, his nicely-shaped nose. He takes in all of him at once. He missed him. Missed life echoing through him like it does now. Castiel can’t help but notice how different he looks. Dean would often wear a suit during a case, he’s seen him wear those on a handful of occasions, but this is not quite it, somehow. The ease in his movements is something else, all the stiffness coming from wearing a fake identity - gone. He sits, he moves, he breathes like the striped blue shirt and red suspenders are his second skin. Castiel doesn’t think it’s his Dean. He becomes wary, but he walks towards the smart, curious looking beast nonetheless. He’s more than determined to win this game, whatever the sacred fuck and a dollhouse it is.

 

As he gets closer, he notices the things that are off.

There’s a handful of them. In order of both appearance and disturbance, it goes as follows:

The chrysanthemums in the vases are dead, regardless of table. This, he rolls his eyes at.

The waitress who just passed him gave him the most indignant glare he’s ever been given - and it must be said, in the past forty days he got a load of those. The real problem about the woman is how she looks. It makes him swallow hard. How does Dean know? Her green pools of venom tells him that he knew. He really knew. Taking in his confused expression, she tsks and turns around on her heel, rushes past him, movements of her limbs and hips all sharp anger. This is going to be a problem, most likely. Tense, he makes it to Dean’s table. Upon sitting down he releases all the air he has no idea he’s been holding. He sighs for what he thinks is at least twelve years.

“Took you a while to get here,” he hears. “Was so bored waiting, I thought I died.” There’s a small chuckle. “I still think I did.”

Castiel looks up and realizes he let the tension out of himself too soon. It returns, ten-fold as strong.

“No,” Castiel breathes in sharply. “you didn’t,” he tells the Dean with clearly cut wrists, who is now casually and carelessly bleeding all over his sleeves and the table. With morbid fascination, he watches the man as he tries to lift his coffee cup (and fails). Under his breath, he mutters something Castiel deciphers for fuck. Drops of blood slowly but undeniably make it to the milk jug below. Hissing and fumbling with his own hands (Castiel can tell that some tendons have been injured), he switches his attention to the now slightly pink milk, which he tries to pour into his americano. With some more damage to the tablecloth, he manages to do just that. Palms shaking, he lifts the cup to his mouth and fortunately Castiel drags himself out of his stupor just in time to point out that drinking this is a very bad idea.

“The coffee, it’s… you shouldn’t drink it,” he manages to mention in concern.

“I’ve swallowed worse,” Dean counters, looking Castiel dead in the eye. “You worried ‘cause this isn’t white anymore?” he inquires. And takes a sip. “Have you ever seen spoiled milk? Ever drank it?” he asks, frowning in contempt. “Still can be all in white and misleading. Stinks as fuck, though. This? At least I know what I’m drinking. From the very start to the very end, no tiny font extras to fuck with me later. A rare luxury these days,” he shrugs, takes another sip.

“Blood,” Castiel reminds him in sheer disbelief. “It’s blood that you’re drinking.”

“Many things have blood, C--” he freezes instantly midword and Castiel tilts his head in confusion. “Oh my god,” Dean continues, only partially wrong in his comment. “I totally forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“To make a proper introduction,” he huffs, as if it’s obvious. “Sometimes I forget I don’t even know you,” Dean muses. “Almost like my tax accountant.”

Remembering a certain barn, Castiel supplies, “I think it’s me you’re referring to.”

Dean gives him a stern once-over in exchange. “I think it’s not,” he comments, his voice a vile parody of Castiel’s. “I would have recognized him. I don’t recognize you.”

Castiel sighs heavily. Not exactly verbatim, but he’s had this conversation dozens of times already. He decides to give himself the same once-over. “Is it the white?” he decides to ask in the end.

Dean seems to weight the question in his mind and put it through a handful of meat grinders before he answers. He gives “No” for an appetizer.

“No,” Castiel echoes, wondering about the wisdom probably hidden behind the tiny answer.

“It’s just milk,” Dean proceeds flatly, “for a whole different bitter coffee,” he bothers to explain. “Bad milk,” he comments upon taking another sip. “Trust me, I’ve tasted it.”

“Tasted what?”

“All the white.”

Castiel looks at his somewhat dirty but definitely once white suit. His body sags and he hides his face in his palm. “Are you done?” he mutters silently in hope Dean won’t hear him.

“No,” comes a confused syllable. They’re inside of him. Of course Dean heard. “I’m Dean Smith,” he deadpans. Looking from in between his fingers, Castiel sees a salesman’s smile. All thirty two teeth and two tons of charm. “And you?” Dean asks with the same wise curiosity he presented at first. Like it matters. Like it’s a test of some sort.

“Castiel,” he throws on the wind, deciding not to care about whatever Dean does with the information. He already knows he’s going to fail this one.

“You gotta be shitting me,” Dean snorts and Castiel tenses again. “What kind of a name is this,” he murmurs to himself, amused to no end. Castiel guesses it could have gone worse, all possible outcomes considering. “Who was it that hated you so much? Your mom or your dad?”

“Dad,” Castiel mutters through gritted teeth, playing along so he could give himself some time to figure this shit out (this shit is infigurable - his minds so very helpfully supply). “Never really met him.”

“Figures someone so shitty would choose to remain absconditus,” Dean comments and Castiel raises an eyebrow at the choice of words. But before he can say anything on the subject, he sees the unfortunate waitress reappear at their table. In this particular order, he can’t help himself but take in: her wide hips, her waist, soft curves of her breasts, her extremely pissed off face with both tacky make up and eternal wrath slapped on it in layers. Her eyes throw green-bladed, blunt daggers at him. She opens her mouth to speak, but Dean is faster when he cuts in:

“So, what do you want from her?” he asks innocently. This question can be understood in many ways despite the lack of malice in the way it was spoken. None of them sound good to mention right now. She waits, silent. Castiel looks down, the weight of her eyes, of the betrayal echoing off them, too heavy to bear with a head held high.

“I’m sorry,” he decides to say. In retrospect - he made a mistake, after all.

“Not on the menu, sweetie,” she chirps, all fake sugar and dirt. “We got flesh, got coffee, and lots of milk,” she enumerates. “For some reason,” she grits through teeth, “Russian coffee is out. Also no newborns.”

Castiel wants to punch something. Himself, mostly.

“Why would he want newborns?” Dean asks, confused.

Taking a strand of hazelnut-colored hair aside, she replies, “Dunno. I been asking this myself, too.”

“Okay,” he looks up at her tiredly. “No newborns. Forget them,” he groans. “I don’t want anything. Whatever hole you crawled out of, you can go back. I see your point perhaps too bright and too clear, Dean,” he says.

She smiles venomously and points her pen at his forehead. “You son of a bitch, this is exactly where I came from, you throw me out of there first. Then find the audacity to talk shit.” Out of probably nowhere, but not that it matters, she pulls a glass of liquid and puts it in front of him with a loud click.

“Is that my concoction?” Dean quirks his eyebrow in honest interest.

“‘S for purging his noggin,” she supplies.

“Will do miracles,” Dean agrees, patting his arm, leaving a wet spot of blood behind. Through this he also manages to get her attention.

“And what’s your poison, mister ‘I can’t even cut my fucking wrist right’?” she asks, irritated. Or rather - Castiel tries to decipher the exact emotion - disappointed.

“Hey, stop complaining if you can’t fix it,” he whines.

“There’d be nothing to fix if you hadn’t fucked it up”, she counters.

“I did everything right, for once, lady!”

“Oh no, you didn’t, you shitfaced motherfu--”

Castiel doesn’t like where and with what velocity this conversation is going. “Enough,” he groans and they both shut up. “Show me your hands, Dean,” he commands.

“I get all tingly when you take control like that,” he chuckles, but does as told anyway while Castiel magically finds enough time to roll his eyes at that. He heals Dean’s wrists again and thinks away all the blood. Both the skin and the shirt are now stainless clean and they lack the shameful failure of Dean’s doing. Dean’s smile vanishes when he sees this. “This is the opposite of fixing that,” he points out. “This isn’t how things should be,” he says, panicked. “It’s bad enough that I’m here.”

“Calm down,” Castiel says, voice firm. “Breathe,” he insists, hoping the message will get through to the real Dean. “Everything’s going to return back to normal. I’m going to fix this.”

“Like you fixed this?” Dean snaps, pointing at his wrist. “No, thanks.”

“Better than that,” he assures.

“Don’t listen to him,” the waitress chips in. “All he’s gonna do is lie to you,” she warns. “He hides a shitton of skeletons in his closet and they’re all white.”

“You shut up,” Castiel growls.

“Go ahead and make me,” she hisses. “Break a bone or two. Knock yourself out. Break a bitch, knock up a bitch, whatever’s better.”

Castiel only glares.

“That’s what I thought,” she spits and leaves.

“About what she said…” Castiel starts, “I’m not going to lie to you. Not on purpose, not through omission. You have my word, you have… you’d know anyway, wouldn’t you?”

“Exactly,” Dean smiles sphinx-like. “And I think your understanding of fixing stuff is utter shit, but I still gotta do my part here. So not that I need to care.”

“Your part?” Castiel prods.

“Yeah. I’m supposed to take you someplace,” he says upon standing up. He grabs his suit jacket. “So get ready.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

“Yeah,” he says, his face full of mysteries about to unfold. “Driver picks the music. Shotgun shuts his cakehole. That clear?”

This is the only thing that is even vaguely clear.

* * *

 

Castiel doesn’t understand the car that is in front of him. As it turns out, even that wasn’t clear. This isn’t the car Castiel remembers and thinks of so fondly. This is a Honda Prius. What its wheel is doing under Dean’s grip escapes Castiel’s understanding.

“What happened here?” he asks, doubting if there even is a point to asking precise, Winchester-related questions.

“Sometimes things just die,” he offers, shimmying out of his shirt. It, alongside the jacket, lands in the spacious trunk fit for a pro-eco family of five. The suspenders soon follow, leaving Dean in a black t-shirt that reveals a sinful amount of skin and Castiel fails to look away. Secondly though, it reveals a print of a panther and he reminds himself of that mysterious shape in the woods. This explains a whole lot.

“Was that you in the wilderness?” he asks as Dean gets into the driver’s seat.

Dean shrugs.

“Did you drink the cocktail?”

“No, I forgot about it,” he answers and earns himself a deep frown. Out of again nowhere, Dean conjures another glass. It’s almost cartoony.

“Drink up,” he demands, tone implying he isn’t taking no for an answer.

“Why?” he asks.

“Like I said, it’s for purging your noggin. It’s anti-baobab.”

“Like you said?”

Dean shrugs again. Castiel’s starting to worry it might become a habit even for this Dean, even here. As if one cold, constantly shrugging Winchester in his life wasn’t enough. “Like you were told,” Dean clarifies and starts the engine. “Drink or we’re not going anywhere.”

Reluctantly, Castiel drinks. It tastes foul. The music in the car starts. He listens in. A female voice sings something about something being over, for bad, for good. It doesn’t bode well. That aside, they drive in silence. Soon they leave the city and end up in between woods again. The song goes on a loop and Dean hums to it, seeming absentminded. Castiel thinks he knows why.

He disagrees. It’s not over. He says as much.

“It is,” Dean says matter of factly. “Once milk gets old you can’t make it fresh again.”

“Stop with the milk,” Castiel says, irritated.

“Shouldn’t have started with the white. Didn’t give me much to work with the metaphors, so let’s roll with what we have.”

“But why milk?”

“I dunno. Maybe because I’ve swallowed and it tasted like shit,” he comments and shrugs once more. One time too many.

“Don’t strain yourself with the shrugging.”

“Does that bother you?”

“Somewhat,” he admits. “It’s like you don’t care where this conversation is going.”

“Well, I have the liberty of it. It’s pretty refreshing. Although considering your portfolio, maybe it’s actually better for you to care about certain things, so I’m not gonna say I recommend. Man, if I only knew there was going to be a lava bust after you pull that stick out of your ass...”

“I care.”

“Then why is the world broken, huh?”

“I’m in the middle of fixing it when there was no one else to do it.”

“By sex and genocide. Great job, by the way.”

“Which one bothers you more?” he asks, genuinely curious and worried.

“You fucking idiot,” Dean snaps and after that focuses entirely on the road, doesn’t grace him with a single word again for what feels like hours. They’re deeper and deeper into the woods. It gets darker.

* * *

 

Dean suggests a break for the night and insists on sleeping in a tent (that he conveniently has in his trunk). Castiel says he doesn’t need to sleep although oddly, he does feel tired. Dean says he’ll need the sleep here and who knows, maybe that’s true. In the slowly waning moonlight he looks like a fox and his eyes scorch him with the color of whiskey as he seems to stare right through him.

“Are you weighing my soul?” Castiel asks, intrigued.

“I’m trying to find you,” he answers enigmatically. “I guess I need more time,” he says, handing him another glass of the cocktail. “Come on,” he prods and Castiel zeroes it down obediently. Soon enough, he starts to feel groggy.

They lie down to sleep, close to each other in the small confines of the tent. He hears crickets in the distance. He feels Dean’s breath ghosting over his neck. He curses his body for reacting to it with a slight shiver. If he weren’t that sleepy, he’d be hard because of it. Good thing he isn’t.

Then comes a hand caressing his thigh and that gets him hard despite feeling doozy.

“You damn fucker,” comes a sweet murmur and a light grip to his crotch, but Castiel is too sleepy and startled to react. “Why did you intoxicate me so much?” that comes out like desperate begging for help. Castiel thinks he knows. “And I don’t even know you,” now that’s a blow to his guts but he takes it in silence.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“You’re sorry it didn’t pan out,” Dean whispers in accusation. “I wish you were sorry you did this.”

“Would it change anything?”

Silence falls on them both in heavy stones of retorts auto-censored and cut before being said. Castiel dozes off not long afterwards, mind bitter, body confused and woeful.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song mentioned in the car: "Over" by Pati Yang


	3. the horse and the baobab

**The horse and the baobab**

Dean expected many things from Cas after the last fall out, but calling himself God was not one of those things. Stupidly, he thought their contempt for the person and position was shared, but now it turned out to be simply a matter of substitution. And Dean doesn’t like where this is going even though he’s got no idea where that is. It just feels a whole new level of wrong. It’s been three days since he left off and nothing has happened yet, not that he knows of. Somehow, it’s even more terrifying.

He dreams of Sam. Sam, who stabbed God in a valiant attempt of last minute heroism and hasn’t been vertical in three days. Of both of them when they were children, playing cards on a motel bed, of him preparing Sam cereal and Sam bitching about the milk being just this side of foul, of them building castles of wet sand, of Sammy making baby steps towards him, with blood running out of his little mouth when he tries to call his name. Dean wakes up crying. Furthermore, he doesn’t wake up alone. Next to him, lying on the bed on his side, there’s Cas. Or God. Or something.

“Hello, Dean.”

God damn it. Okay, he’ll definitely need a new saying. Marking that up for later.

“What happened to me being an unimportant ant? What did I do that the ultra Pope comes to bid me a visit in the middle of the… well, if it’s night.” He checks the alarm clock. It’s actually near morning.

“You’re suffering,” Castiel comments softly. “You don’t have to be.”

Dean sighs very loudly and sits up rapidly. He doesn’t want to lie next to this thing, whether it has any connotations or not. “What do you want?” he asks, voice too fucking tired to even sound properly angry.

“Not much,” Cas answers conversationally. “Mostly talk,” he shrugs innocently, suddenly so goddamn fluent in small talk and this, of all things, tells Dean this isn’t Cas.

“Do I look like doctor Phil to you?” he groans.

Cas’s expression doesn’t change a bit.

“You were always my confidant,” he smiles. “You’re special, Dean.”

“Have the souls wiped your goddamn memory stick? Don’t you remember I’m done with being special for whatever holy party currently at large? You forgot I’ve never been a fan of that position?” Shit, that came out wrong. Then again, nothing can be right in this asshat conversation that shouldn’t even be taking place. “You did your shit so leave us alone and let us rot,” Dean snarls.

“You know I’d never do that,” Castiel murmurs. “There are greater things in store for you than that. It’s not about heaven or hell. You don’t have to be afraid. It’s between me and you. Personal,” he smiles and idly, Dean wonders how many and how sharp teeth he’d see if Cas shown any. He shudders both at the words and at the thought itself.

“Yeah?” he prompts, throat sore. Like it or not, he needs to figure out what the fuck does this thing want first. Number one rule of know your monster is… know your monster (and don’t talk about loving the monster club).

“I want to talk about your future, Dean. Yours and your brother’s.”

“Speaking of the future,” he says, attempting to wipe tiredness off of his face (no effect), “remind me not to drink so much before I go to bed. Or scratch that. Remind me to drink more.”

“Your brain is trying to cope with your situation,” Castiel explains, putting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Dean decides there is no point in shrugging that off. You probably can’t shrug God off, anyway. “But it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can fix Sam. No wall, no nothing. He will be good as new, no memories of the cage to eat at him.”

“But there’s a but,” Dean states, goddamn knowing there is, because there is a difference between _I can_ and _I’m gonna_.

“We need to set new terms to the… agreement,” and Dean thinks deal, you son of a bitch you wanted to say deal like a black eyed bitch, you did.

“Agreement,” Dean huffs in contempt and Castiel seems to let that note of hatred slide.

“Yes. You’ve failed to meet the old condition. Perhaps you’ll meet the new one.” And Dean thinks, does he want to even know? He lets him talk. “You didn’t stand down, as you recall,” Castiel continues. “All I ask of you is to stand up and come with me.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’re my friend. Because you’re precious and special to me.”

“And?”

“Because I need you by my side,” he explains.

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

Jesus fucking Christ. And what the hell does he say to that?

“Leave.” For now he says that, at loss of other words.

“I understand your fear, my friend,” Castiel says softly. “I’ll let you think about it. I will return,” he squeezes his shoulder lightly and after a moment the weight is gone, followed by a rustle of wings. From what he hears, much bigger ones.

* * *

 

Technically, it was leaving him to marinate in alcohol and plenty, plenty of Sam themed nightmares, including: Sam in hell - tortured, Sam dying - stabbed, Sam lying on Bobby’s bed just like he does currently (all the time now), but dead. In this aspect, they’re pretty monothematic, but combined with the fact that Sam is getting worse and he doesn’t wake up anymore, it works. When Castiel comes the second time four nights later, Dean already knows he’s going to say yes and regret it. Not like he’s got any other options. He’ll figure this out when Sam’s back to normal. Without him, he somehow can’t even think straight. He’s still pissed his weakness is again used against him by someone who claims to love him. The pain from Cas breaking Sam’s wall is still livid and bright and it hurts even more because it was Cas, not this, who did this.

Perhaps knowing what’s on Dean’s mind, Cas starts with, “I know you don’t trust me.” Dean nods. “I regret the action I have taken against your brother. I don’t want him to suffer.”

“Then why haven’t you fixed him yet?”

“I know you need an incentive. And trust me, I’m doing this for your own good,” Castiel declares. And yea, right.

“Is that so?”

“Think about it, Dean. Wouldn’t Sam dying be a good option to have you out of my way? Wouldn’t it let you have other things to focus on rather than stopping me? And before you say anything, I know you’re inclined to.” Of course. “And yet, here I am, willing to help you. To help your brother.”

“Then go and heal him. Then we’ll talk.”

“Come with me and we can have all the talk in the world,” he counters, firm. “And Sam,” he adds.

“Why do you want me to go with you? What do you need me for? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’ve already told you.”

“Yeah and what you told me was,” disturbing, “crap,” now there’s a better word.

“I need you to understand that I’m not the evil you paint me as. My intentions are nothing but benevolent.”

“Benevolent,” Dean echoes flatly. “Do you sometimes listen to yourself speak? Come on, man. This isn’t you.”

“Oh, but it is.”

“Guess I never even knew you then,” he says through gritted teeth and watches hurt flash briefly through Castiel’s too composed face.

“Dean, how can you say this. After all we’ve been through together--”

“After you breaking Sam like he’s nothing, after you gutting Visyak, after you coming here to mend fences, but stealing Bobby’s shit instead, after you having Lisa almost die because you sided with English garbage,” he cuts in, vicious. “Yeah, I think I can, buddy. So save it.”

Castiel’s expression hardens. “You save it. We’re both soldiers and I know you know means to an end when you see one. You too have worked with Crowley. Stop painting yourself pristine.”

Dean huffs. This was different. This is insane. But Castiel goes on, relentless. “I’ve only temporarily incapacitated your brother. For you I’ve killed thousands of mine. If you think I didn’t know them or their names, you’re wrong. I’ve sacrificed for you more than you can fathom and I only ask you to come.”

“Come and do what, exactly.” One, he’s starting to feel mildly guilty here and that’s shit. Two, he already knows he’s coming. “Just fucking explain.”

“You’re the true embodiment of Humanity, Dean. It’s only fair I reigned with the Righteous Man by my side. You can help me make the right decisions. You can be my inspiration.”

“Like what? Your muse?”

“If you put it that way,” Castiel smiles. Dean shakes his head in disbelief.

“And that’s it?” He raises his eyebrow.

“That’s a lot, Dean.”

Doesn’t seem like a lot. There has to be some crap woven into this, he’s certain. “So what’s the small font here.”

“There isn’t any.”

“So what? Is this some kind of deal? Do I need to…” kiss you?

“No,” Castiel cuts and thank God. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, A handshake would suffice,” he says, extending a hand. Warily, Dean grabs it. Castiel holds it warm and firm. He squeezes lightly. “I’m so glad you made the right choice.”

Dean squishes his fear and tries to think of Sam.

“I’ll just go and tell Bobby, first.”

Castiel nods. “It’s okay to bid your farewells.”

His what?

“My farewells?”

“The position you’re about to take is pretty permanent.”

Like your reign, supposedly. But we’ll see about that, Dean thinks.

* * *

 

To say the very least, Bobby wasn’t exactly thrilled, but Dean had his mind already made up. Castiel plants him and Sam in a house somewhere in Illinois. It looks boring, bland and too spacious. It lacks a white picket fence. Dean doesn’t need to see all the wards to feel them. Pretty powerful shit. He feels naked without his weapons and, to him, the wards don’t make much of a difference. He wants his stuff.

“You don’t need that here,” Castiel explains. “I am the safest place on Earth. And I am your home now,” he tries to comfort and for a brief moment, his hand lands on Dean’s back, a wee bit too low for him to maintain inner peace, if there ever was any.

“Let’s go fix Sam,” he croaks, deeply disturbed.

“It will take time, Dean,” Castiel warns and Dean definitely doesn’t like it. “But I promise it’s going to work. Soon, you’ll be together again.” He smiles. “All three of us,” he adds and guides Dean with his hand. “You’re a fearful dove. Don’t be. All is going to be well, you have my word.”

His word is exactly what Dean is being afraid of. That and that hand and being lovingly called a pigeon. Especially the latter. Dean already had all the time in the world to notice that the new and improved Yahweh is pretty fixated on intimacy. Now, how that intimacy is understood exactly is yet to unravel, but Dean certainly can’t say he’s a big fan of finding out. It’s just a hand on his back, he tells himself. It’s just the two of them. And the world. While Castiel is the boa constrictor pretending to be a fucking hat.

* * *

 

As previously stated and later all too well confirmed by Dean, Castiel is the boa constrictor and the world is his elephant. It’s all about slow digestion and baby steps. Minor miracles, major miracles… minor deaths, major deaths: people of hate speech die, KKK is dead, poachers also die, mass murderers die in their prisons, paedophile priests die in their rich comfy chairs. Cleansing, he calls it. People, Dean reminds him and Castiel says “you aren’t born a monster, you become one” and Dean fails to find an argument other than but it’s wrong and for Castiel that’s not enough. “I want the world to be full of people like you,” he tells Dean time after time and Dean chokes down a sob or two. Full of naive idiots, of fools, cause that’s what he is for letting all of this keep on happening, not knowing how to put an end to any of this. So much for his guidance if his words don’t mean shit. Days pass and on every single passing one Dean watches the sunset, praying to shit knows who for all of this to end. He wonders if Castiel listens. If he cares.

 

On a certain day he finds that Cas has opinions on his opinions. The fights consisting of _it’s not you/ it’s me alright_ are something that occurs on somewhat daily basis and with each one Dean is more convinced that he’s right. It reached a cartoony level of stubbornness and Dean is positive he saw something predatory flash in Castiel’s face at least once when he said his usual line of “that’s all there is to me.” Dean might have shuddered, but if asked, he will deny. But what makes Dean convinced for sure that Cas isn’t Cas and has him lose the very last remains of his hope happens more than a month after he and Cas began their tango of awkwardness. Cas explains he wants to restore the ecological balance on Earth. That there should be more wildernesses, that the Earth shouldn’t be infested with humans to the extent it is now. His very vaguely explained plan involves wiping out an entire country and making it the land where lion can play with the lamb. Dean’s furious.

“You son of a bitch, this is insane,” he sneers and before he can think better of it, he throws a fist at Cas’s jaw. This time Castiel doesn’t turn away and the fist connects with solid stone. Dean hisses in pain, there are broken fingers involved. Castiel grabs him by the wrist and squeezes.

“You’re blind,” he states. Grip tightens. “And stubborn.” He feels his wrist snap. “Do you need fractures and pain to see?” And it tightens more. He feels his feeble bones give in. He snarls in pain and anger. “You don’t want to understand that I know what I’m doing with this planet. I will move all the faithful people, no harm will come to them.”

“There’s not much of them,” he manages to say through gritted teeth.

“That’s their problem. I don’t need those who don’t believe in me. The world doesn’t need them either.”

“So now what? Destroy the infidels?” Dean hisses.

“Why would good people reject my kindness and my plan?”

“Because they see your wrathful side and they don’t like it.”

“Justice is a hammer, Dean,” he says and heals Dean’s hand. “Remember that. Please, rethink this,” he says, kissing the upper side of his palm lightly.

“You rethink it,” he snarls, yanking his hand away in panic.

But Castiel doesn’t relent.

* * *

 

New plan. It has a lot of to do with loving the monster club. Mostly though, this time it’s about the monster loving him back. At this point Dean’s done trying to pull out an entire fucking baobab of souls and madness with his bare hands. He only keeps getting splinters. He doesn’t think there is a Cas to save anymore. There’s just a Cas to deal with. The baobab’s won and Dean wonders whether it’s his fault. If he should have seen it coming when it was just an innocent seed. But no, he didn’t see squat, too busy with Sam when clearly Cas needed his guidance. So maybe it is his fault and now he’s paying the price of the consequences of being blind, deaf and not caring enough.

He puts on the white clothes he’s found in his closet. He hates how he looks. He hates Cas in white and he hates fucking angels in white suits wearing the faces of people he once loved. He’s already had that once. Maybe going through this again is another stage of his punishment. He wonders if there is yet another one in between having to look at this and getting fucked by the baobab white god (which is probably like getting fucked by Annie Wilkes; he feels like Sheldon already here).

He’s about to find out. Tonight he’s not watching the sunset. He’s too done for that. Also, a job awaits him. Just another job, he tells himself. All the monsters in hell probably laugh at him now but he tries to be above self-pity. It’s his fault, he reminds himself. He earned this. God, the day he fell for Cas and his mind spat out his first “what if,” he wasn’t careful what he wished for. Now he has Cas without a war, without a stick in his ass, a Cas that wants to fuck him (obvious from how he touches him and how he looks at him when he thinks Dean doesn’t see) and somehow it went wrong. This isn’t what he wanted, but this is what he has and he’ll have to deal with that.

He doesn’t exactly have a plan, which is the worst thing about this whole idea. He’s not sure how fucking Cas is supposed to make him not destroy a huge part of humanity, but it’s the only thing he’s got. He’s done nothing yet and he’s already tired. Cas will probably tire him more. He wonders how much hunger lies beneath Cas’s seemingly innocent but still fucking predatory looks. Funny that of all the things in the world, it’s something made of feathers and claws and teeth that continues to claim it loves him.

But if Cas loved him, he’d never agree on Dean’s plan.

* * *

 

Cas takes him thrice that night; in fleur de lis sheets, in confessions of eternal and indestructible love and in begging Dean to look at him like he looked in the days before. All Dean looks back with is despair. So when Castiel takes him, thrice after the sunset, he fills Dean with need - it’s thick like honey and it fills every fibre of his being, roots of baobab and its branches crushing his aching chest. It all is Cas and it all screams Cas, Cas, Castiel, Cas, and Dean shudders, needs to be taken, needs to be undone, needs to be fucked right there, right then, his body keening and crying for more, while he, apathetic, lets it wail. Lets Cas have whatever the fuck he wants this once.

As they lie together in the darkness, Cas kisses the nape of Dean’s neck while Dean desperately wants to throw up the seed of the baobab he now feels he harbors. “You inspire me,” he hums into his still heated skin. Dean swallows a sob which falls thickly on the baobab seed and feeds it. In the darkness of the now truly conjugal room, turned away from his probably now spouse, he stares at an outline of a white wedding dress, hanging on the wall. Somehow he knows it’s for him but he is too resigned to indulge himself into wondering about the intricate mechanisms of how.

“What’s the dress for?” He still, however, wants to know the why.

There’s a beat of silence before he answers. Less than in Cage’s 4’33, but still a lot of it. “I want to--”

“Marry me,” Dean cuts in, sounding so flat it amazes even him. He’s worn out. He feels baobab splinters all over himself, all of this the touch of Cas’s hands and mouth (and many, many teeth). “I’ve figured it out from the TV.”

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” Castiel confesses mournfully.

“No wonder,” Dean huffs, eyes still fixed on the dress.

“How do you feel about this?”

“Does it matter? Do I have a choice?”

“Until you came here tonight, wearing my wedding gifts, you had.”

“Figured,” he sighs. “Why do you want me in a dress?”

“It’s for the ceremony and for the wedding night.”

“You want me to crossdress for the ceremony?”

“No,” Castiel laughs lightly, like Dean’s being particularly that funny, which, no, he isn’t. “I’m going to grant you a female body.”

“Jesus, Cas. This is fucking sick, you know that.”

“The ceremony has to be traditional.”

“I thought you don’t give a fuck about sexual orientation,” Dean sneers.

“Dean, you, as the bride represent the church. My followers need that kind of confirmation. Besides,” he adds and kisses Dean’s arm softly, “there’s no other way to have offspring.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not? I could let you sleep through the whole nine months so you wouldn’t be bothered by it.”

“I don’t fucking want to be pregnant, Cas. I don’t wanna be a chick, end of goddamn story, you hear me?”

“What if I gave you an extra incentive?”

“You mean?”

“You can’t save Russia anymore. But there are other countries I have plans for. You might want me to not have them,” he says and Dean hears that predatory smile in his soft, soft voice. That son of a bitch.

“I won’t forgive you this,” he promises, venom dripping through his gritted teeth.

“Oh, Dean,” Castiel fucking chirps, “you already have.”

And then he touches his temple with his fingers and Dean suddenly can’t help but wonder why the fiddly damn fuck he’s staring at an empty wall and he can’t figure out what was he thinking the second before.


	4. the horse and the carnival

**the horse and the carnival**

 

“We’re almost at the carnalval,” Dean announces upon driving them into a tree. The last thing Castiel notices before the impact is that the cut wounds reappeared and that’s when bleeding all over the place, Dean lost control over the prius. “Sorry,” he hears a muffled chuckle. “S’ my hands again,” comes an apology.

Castiel feels tired all the time. Must be the cocktails Dean keeps giving him. He sighs and opens his eyes eventually. After turning around to look at Dean, he wants to sigh again, but doesn’t.

Apparently unbothered by it at all, Dean sits behind the steering wheel covered with a white sheet and bleeds through it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Knowing Castiel’s thoughts, Dean offers, “It was until you fucked with the natural order.” And he shrugs.

Castiel pulls the sheet off angrily. “What happened in the bathroom had nothing to do with natural. Was I expected to sit and do nothing?” he asks, fury clear in his voice.

With matching fervor, Dean pulls the sheet back on. “You were expected to fuck off,” he explains.

“It’s naive to believe I would,” Castiel splutters.

“Dying man’s last wish, I guess.”

“You’re not dead.”

Now it’s Dean who pulls the sheet away behind his head, making it look like a grim parody of a wedding veil. He stares at Castiel like he’s a particularly stupid six year old in dire need of having some very basic information explained.

“You are very, very stubborn. Do I look alive to you?” he asks, waving his slit wrist in front of Castiel. “But thanks to that trait you finally have what you wanted,” Dean smiles, getting paler every second.

“What do you mean?” Castiel asks because clearly, this is the opposite of what he wanted.

“A beautiful bride,” Dean sing-songs, leaning in. “So kiss her,” he says, grabbing Castiel’s face with his bleeding hands, but Castiel pulls away.

“No,” he states firmly because all of this is wrong.

“Oh,” Dean pouts. “You made me want you and now you don’t want to kiss me? That’s rude. And here I am, wearing white for you.”

Of course he suddenly is.

“I’m sorry. What I’ve done was wrong. I was being desperate. Now I understand. And I can’t do this to you. I’m so sorry for doing this to you in the first place, Dean.”

“An elegy over spilled milk,” he huffs.”Then I guess you won’t like the carnalval.”

“The what?”

“Where all the fun with the flesh takes place. Where we’re going.” He tries to start the car but it won’t give. “Where we’re walking,” he corrects himself.

* * *

 

After a few hours of walking in more or less silence and after a few more cocktails, they finally reach what seems to be their destination point. It’s an abandoned fair. In the distance, miserere mei deus plays. Of course Dean would keep the bitterness up. Castiel turns around to ask if this is it, but when he does, Smith is already gone. So Castiel marches towards the direction of the music, having no other choice. It doesn’t take him long to find Dean. He’s standing by a carousel and seems busy peeling off skin of a horse that should be made of plastic and metal, but it isn’t. The animal, impaled on the carousel pole, wheezes as it gets skinned. Dean doesn’t look bothered by the noises nor by the horse’s anguish as he continues to replay hell’s greatest hits. He even looks just like when Castiel first found him in Hell. He’s wearing a black leather apron, his hands are all covered in blood and his eyes gleam with dark gray, almost, but not yet black.

The core of the soul, Castiel figures, is the most marred by Hell. That has to be it. But the assault on the horse, he doesn’t quite understand. Dean hums to the tune, doesn’t notice him yet.

“Dean?” he tries.

Dean looks up, but doesn’t put away his tools. “Oh, finally, Cas. I was getting impatient.” He smiles viciously. “Welcome to the ninth circle of Hell.”

“We’re not in Hell, Dean.”

“Figuratively speaking, we might as well be, Cas. We’re in the perfect place for you. For traitors. So there you go, Dante’s ninth circle.” He peels another layer of skin with his knife.

“What are you doing, Dean?” Castiel asks, worried - whether more about Dean or the horse, at this point he doesn’t know. He knows nothing here.

“Me? Oh, I’m just,” he chuckles with something resembling honest embarrassment. “It didn’t want to drink. I’m just touching it lovingly so it would understand that it was necessary. I need to go deeper than the skin, Cas. Just like you.”

Castiel frowns, the implication more than clear to him. “Let the horse go, Dean.”

“Like what,” he huffs. “Like you let me?”

“I’ve seen my mistakes. You don’t have to repeat them to me.”

“Maybe I should, cause I don’t think you understand what you’ve done,” he says, sadness and resignation finally taking place of the former bravado.

“I’ve hurt you,” Castiel admits. Dean shakes his head.

“No. You’ve betrayed me. Me, my family, my trust.”

“Dean, I’m--”

“No. I don’t give a fuck about your sorrys. You should have told me something’s wrong. You shouldn’t have gone through all of this alone. With Crowley. Why didn’t you tell me? I asked you, more than once. We would have never ended up here if you were honest. Look what the souls have done to you.”

“Dean, I felt responsible for you. I tried---”

“You?” Dean cuts in in disbelief. “Responsible? Cas, you were convinced you had thorns that could scare off tigers. But you were just a child, Cas. A terrified kid who broke everything.” Dean finally puts away his tools and washes his hands in a basin placed nearby. “Because you didn’t trust me. And then you’ve manipulated me into this because you didn’t trust me to make my own choice. You broke Sam and then you bribed me with him. Why?”

“It was the souls. I wanted to be with you. That was the solution they offered. But it’s going to be alright, Dean. Just come back. I’ve fixed Sam.”

“I know,” Dean says mournfully. “Funny how easy it was for you, in the end. Guess you’ve got no leverage now.”

“I don’t. Everything is up to you now. It’s your choice.”

“I made my choice in that bathtub, Cas.”

“Dean, you can’t.”

“Oh, of course I can. I don’t care if you make peace with this or not. You’ve played your song, now it’s time for mine. So have mercy, dear God, and let me do my job.”

“Your job?”

“I’m only here to unplug you. We’ve talked when you sulked, Death and me. He gave me a way to help you. My soul is a passage between the world and Purgatory. I’m not fully dead and to be honest I’m not fully human either. Been part demon, been a vampire and it’s enough. Stuck between Purgatory and here, my soul’s been cleansing you and putting the souls back ever since you entered.”

“So that’s what the cocktails were about.”

“Mostly.”

“So if I’m going to be healed, come with me. I’ll fix everything, I promise,” Castiel begs.

“No,” Dean states firmly. “Besides, you’re too weak to pull me back in. The purge has drained you like it should.”

“I’ll find a way.”

“I don’t want to come. It’s you who broke me, not the souls. You broke Sam’s head. You lied to me about healing him. You took the souls in the first place. I don’t want to be anywhere near you. I can’t and won’t trust you. Hell fucking with me like this I get, but you I didn’t expect. You were my friend.”

“I am your friend!” Castiel insists.

“The only thing you are is going back,” Dean snarls and takes a step forward. “You’re going to return and fix your fucking mess, you hear me?”

“And what about you?”

“Death will make sure there will be no way for you to find me. He’ll reincarnate me into something, anything. So maybe, just maybe, it will fucking stop you from destroying anything more, cause you’re gonna be afraid of destroying me by an accident. Maybe he’ll plant me as a tree in your fucking garden. Happy now?”

“Dean, why are you doing this to yourself?”

For a moment, Dean’s gaze softens. “‘Cause it’s the only way to save you. You made all this choices because I had you make the first step. I’m responsible.”  
“You’re not responsible for what I’ve done.”

“But I’m responsible for you. You were a child but I taught you wrong. I drew a sheep but forgot the muzzle. I’m fixing my mistake.”

“I’ll never forgive myself for this,” Castiel says hopeless, tears filling his eyes. He doesn’t know what to do. He feels there has to be something to make Dean change his mind. But Dean never changes his mind once he’s set on a mission.

“Oh, Cas,” he sighs softly. “You’re not supposed to.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Take care of my brother like you promised. Fix your fucking carnaval down there,” Dean says and places a hand on Castiel’s chest. “Just don’t tell him how I died.”

“Will you ever forgive me?”

“Don’t beg me. Beg the Earth to forgive you.”

“Dean,” Castiel tries once more.

“What,” he says, resigned.

“I love you.”

Silence falls. Dean swallows hard.

“Go,” he says, voice shaking and he presses his palm further into Castiel’s chest. “Love the world, then. See me in it. I’ll be there, somewhere.”

Castiel feels cold and white fills over his senses.

He screams Dean’s name but it’s in vain. He finds himself in the chair again.


	5. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [vanilla-jackson](http://vanilla-jackson.tumblr.com) made a stunning drawing for the fic.  
>  You can find it [here](http://vanilla-jackson.tumblr.com/post/152825165662/somewhere-out-there-dean-blooms-this-was)

**epilogue**

Death comes to Dean like the yellow snake. Takes him home. Castiel sits and cries next to a body he’ll have to burn just like he burned Springfield the day before. Behind a wall or two, Sam still sleeps. Behind a wall or two, the city lies in ashes.

Somewhere out there, Dean blooms.

 

 


End file.
